“You’re—” Gale found himself struggling to respond for a moment, overwhelmed. Where some might have been skittish and shied away from such kindness, he embraced it like a parched man being handed a glass of water. “Nepione, are you certain you never wanted to continue a career into the bardic arts with a performance troupe? Because you possess the remarkable ability to say exactly the right thing. My own meager poetry scribbling in my tower could never compare. You’re a marvel.”

The wizard was quick and easy with compliments; perhaps a little too flowery and grandiose with them, but it was always earnest, always equally heartfelt. He was accustomed to painting in broad strokes, with bare-faced emotional honesty.

And yet this, this was why they let Nepione handle so much of the public negotiation with strangers: her ability to pluck the heartstrings, appealing to people, managing to persuade them, when Gale suspected he’d just shove his foot in his mouth if he tried, and Lae’zel would likely shove her fist through their face.

“So. Then, consider all talk of debts and ledgers and favours erased. Instead, I’ll implore you to simply allow us to look after you in turn, even if it’s only every so often, even if you prefer not to be perceived. Because after all, I,” a stutter-stop, quickly glazing over that phrasing, “we care for you greatly.”